No Time To Bleed

by Dusty Sharp

  Sometimes he wished he was more like his cousin Hank: driven, persistent, and usually on the right side of the law. When they were kids Hank had been a bit an odd duck—somewhat of an introvert. But ever since they’d found the ruins of the old ship in the desert, on a camping trip when they were teenagers, Hank had become more confident, more focused. He had matured into somewhat of a tech genius and serial entrepreneur. Hank had seen his share of failures, but he’d hit a few home runs too. His software company and other ventures provided him the means to go off on his adventures.

  He wondered if Hank still carried that little black pearl in his pocket, the one he’d found among the ruins of the old ship. He called it his good luck charm. Austin didn’t believe in superstition but he suspected there might be some truth behind this one. They’d barely made it back alive when Hank and Austin had all that trouble down in Mexico 20 years ago. He knew Hank still had the pearl at that time, as he’d pulled it out of his pocket and shown it to him reverently. He seemed to find comfort in it somehow, the way he kept jamming his hand into his pocket to rub it between his fingers. Hank had his pearl, but Austin preferred a good sharp knife to keep the odds in his favor.

  He was still thinking about Hank when he pulled up to the stop sign where Amboy Road T-bones into Route 66. Hank had sent him a text just that morning, he’d read it before he left Riverside. “hey cuz! need u in sf - shitz gitn real”. He’d wondered what it was about, but didn’t have time to call him and find out. Phone calls with Hank always ended up taking over an hour, and he wanted to wait until he had the time for a real conversation, rather than give him the short shrift. He’d answered with “call you soon,” and figured he’d do so after he got to Vegas. Maybe he’d even head over to Frisco to see what Hank was all worked up about, after a few days setting things straight in Sin City.

  It was almost midnight when Austin turned right onto old Route 66 and rode the last quarter mile into Amboy. He was surprised to see the lights were on at Roy’s.

  Amboy was established to service the area’s mines back in the 1800’s, but hit its stride during the heyday of Route 66 in the middle of the 1900’s. Motorists traveling the Mother Road found Amboy a welcome site when crossing the desolation of the Mojave Desert. But the opening of Interstate 40 only ten miles to the north in the 1970’s spelled the end for Amboy. The town declined and fell into disuse, becoming just another abandoned curiosity for those who happened to find themselves on this bypassed section of the old road.

  But a few years ago an investor had bought the entire town, lock stock and barrel. There was Roy’s Motel with its iconic sign, a café with a gas station island out front, and a post office. There was even a school house, a church and a few other buildings. Word was the new owner planned to fix everything back up and get it operating as sort of a Route 66 museum. But there hadn’t been much progress yet.

  Austin had gotten to know the older couple that had been hired as caretakers, since he came through here semi-regularly. It turned out the old man had even known his dad years back. Gene and Doris oversaw the various rehabilitation projects that were going on around the town, while also serving as postmasters and running the Route 66 themed gift shop inside the old café.

  But tonight the café was dark. The lights were coming from the office for Roy’s Motel, a separate mid-century modern building set next to a line of dilapidated motel bungalows. Austin brought the big Harley to a stop just outside its plate glass facade, and shut the V-twin down. He hung his half-helmet and goggles on the handlebars, and walked inside.

  Roy's Motel

  “Austin!” came the voice through the half-closed office door behind the reception desk. “I knew it was you!” Gene’s gravelly voice boomed as he emerged into the office. “I’d recognize the sound of that bike anywhere!”

  “Don’t lie, Gene, shovelheads all sound the same,” Austin said as Gene came around the counter and embraced him in a solid bear hug. “And you should be careful, some bad hombres ride bikes that sound just like that.”

  Gene stood back for a good look at Austin, then teetered around to peek at the Electra-Glide, which was visible through the plate glass windows in the glow spilling out from the office lights. “Yeah, well, I know one of them, and he ain’t so tough,” Gene said, turning back to wink at Austin. “So, what brings you through town? And this goddamn late!”

  “It’s only midnight. But I s’pose that’s past bedtime for an old man,” Austin chided as he walked over to a period-correct sofa that was the centerpiece of the room’s vintage decor, and lowered himself with a satisfying grunt. “I’m headed back up to Vegas. Seems to be a bit of trouble in paradise.”

  Gene had disappeared behind the door again. Austin could hear him rummaging around back there. He reappeared with a half-bottle of Don Julio and two mismatched shot glasses.

  “You get old like me, you can’t sleep,” Gene explained. “You find all kinds of things to keep you busy. I was just tooling around in here thinking Doris and I need to start sprucing this place up. The dust is getting so deep the roaches need snowshoes.” He wiped a section of the counter top clear with the palm of his hand, and set the tequila bottle and shot glasses down in the center of it.

  “But I suppose a nightcap might bring me some sheep to count.” He held the square bottle up to the light and eyed the amber liquid sloshing around in the corners. Then he poured the two shots with practiced precision.

  “Just one for me, thanks,” Austin said, accepting the shot glass as Gene took a spot at the other end of the couch. He wanted to get to Vegas before sunup. “So how are things in Amboy? Doesn’t look like much progress around here.”

  Gene studied his glass a moment, then tilted his head back and drained it. His eyes watered slightly as he grunted his approval of the liquor. “Well, the owner’s optimistic as ever. But we’re having water problems. The wells only want to pump salt water. There’s no sense in fixing up the café, motel and whatnot if we’re drinking and showering in salt.”

  Austin nodded. He looked around the old motel office, its art-deco vibe frozen in time, in a state of arrested decay that would probably be permanent, if what Gene said was true.

  “Couple meatheads came through here today askin’ after you.”

  Austin paused, his own shot glass almost to his lips, “That so?” he asked, an eyebrow arched in Gene’s direction. Then he drained it. “AHHhhh…” he grunted his own approval as the tequila warmed his throat. Añejo. The old man always did have a taste for the good shit.

  “Ayup. Ast if I’d seen ya. Figured they were a couple of your Rattlers. Had them snakes on their vests.”

  “Say what they wanted?

  “Nope. Just ast if you’d been through here. I told ‘em the truth, that I hadn’t seen you for a few months. I was in the café straightenin’ up. They bought a couple of my Route 66 root beers and drank them under the awning out by the gas pumps. Then they got on their bikes and took off, headed east towards Essex.”

  Rattlers. So they were looking for him. Apparently things back in Riverside hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d planned; that “exit policy” he’d made hadn’t set well with the management. These must have been brothers out of the Barstow chapter, watching his known routes. He mentally kicked himself for being so predictable.

  “How many?”

  “Two came into the store. I think there were a couple more on their bikes outside. They circled around the town while the two were inside askin’ after ya.”

  Austin heard the creaking of Gene’s arthritic knees as the old man rose off the couch, snatched the shot glass from his hand, and ambled back over to the bottle on the counter. But he was too lost in thought to protest as Gene poured them another round.

  So they’d sent four guys. Austin figured they probably had a similar crew watching I-15 up around Baker. Another out on the Ten somewhere by Indio. Well, at least they had that much respect for him.

  “Are you in trouble, son?” Austin’s mind came back t
o the present to find another shot of Don Julio in front of his face, hovering there in Gene’s gnarled clutch. He took it and looked up at the old man.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” he said as he drained the shot. This time he barely noticed the burn. He looked over at Gene and said “I’ve turned in my patches,” with a sigh.

  “Oh,” Gene said, staring at his own second round. He was quiet a moment, then said “Oh,” again, and took the shot.

  “Yeah, they don’t take kindly to that,” Austin said as he rose off the couch. “Seems they figure once you’re in, you’re in for life.” He’d wondered if they’d have the balls to send a crew after him. Apparently, they did.

  “You just…quit? You know you can’t do that, Austin.” Gene was staring at him, his eyes the size of egg yolks, his head slowly swiveling in a “no” pattern.

  Austin acknowledged his concern with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s not like on TV. They don’t hang you up with chains and torch your tattoos off. But still, I imagine they are a bit pissed.”

  This time Austin poured his own shot. The bottle was getting low, but he knew Gene religiously kept to a two-drink limit so he didn’t bother to offer re-filling his. “The MC’s changing. Has been for a while and I’ve been too blind to see it. Or too stupid to admit it. Its not the same brotherhood my old man brought me up in.” He took the final shot and looked over at Gene, who was staring at him expectantly.

  “Sure, we’ve been into guns, drugs, protection rackets, those sorts of things,” Austin continued. “Stuff I wasn’t always proud of it, but so far I’ve gone along with all of it. But lately they’ve been get’n into some shit I can’t abide by.” He set his shot glass back on the counter and headed for the door. “Thanks for the drink, Gene. I got shit to do.”

  “You be careful!” He heard the old man call as he headed out the door.

  The Cable Guy

  Gene had turned out the lights behind him as Austin pulled out onto Route 66 headed east. He was thinking about that crew from the Rattlers. Why were they hunting him? Of course, it had to do with his abrupt departure from the MC. Maybe Tillman had ordered them to give him a few bruises as a parting gift.

  It had been half a day since they’d come through here, so they were probably back home in their beds by now. But just to play it safe he figured he’d better change up his route a little bit. Rather than head up Kelbaker Road through Kelso like he usually did, he’d continue on out to the 40 and take 95 up through Searchlight. But Kelbaker Road was still a few miles away.

  As he brought the bike up to speed he was grateful for the fancy new LED headlight he had put on it a few months earlier. It cast a wide beam of bright, white light. He could see the tamarisk trees and creosote bushes flying past him on either side, so he figured he’d be able to spot any trouble in plenty of time.

  His thoughts had just turned back to Hank again, and his cryptic text message of that morning, when his eyes caught a thin, horizontal line of reflected light across his path, directly ahead.

  “Oh Fuck!”

  Austin’s reflexes acted quicker than his mind could think. He threw the bike onto its side at full speed, tin and steel shrieking against the asphalt, sparks flying as he and the bike slid down the highway. He ducked his head as he passed under the taut steel cable, momentarily ignoring the pain welling up from his left thigh and forearm as the asphalt ground away denim and flesh.

  Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the gleam of chrome in the moonlight, near the end of the cable at the side of the road as he slid under it. He and the big Harley continued their slide, until the bike’s footpeg caught in a pothole and flipped over, cartwheeling another 60 feet before coming to a rest. Austin instinctively tucked into a roll himself, trying to minimize how much of his thigh was getting ground into hamburger. He finally came to a stop 20 feet from the bike. Luckily, his half-helm had stayed on his head through most of the crash, but on the last contact with pavement, the chin strap broke and it rolled to a stop a few feet away.

  As he struggled to find his feet and his bearings, four thoughts passed through Austin’s mind all at once.

  First: Rattlers. Oh Shit. They’d laid their trap before his possible routes split at Kelbaker Road. They weren’t as dumb as he thought.

  Second: Holy fuck they mean business! That cable clothesline was meant to kill. It could have cut him in half or taken off his head. These assholes weren’t here just to give him a stern talking to.

  Third: They fucked up pop’s bike. Someone’s going to pay.

  Fourth: Fucking-A my leg and arm hurts, I wonder how much of me is left?

  Make that Five Things, as he also realized he was exposed out here and he’d better get some cover. He heard the first shot as he scrambled toward the bike 20 feet further down the road. The round struck the pavement close enough to send a rock chip flying at his face and embed in his temple. A second round went high, thank God, just as he was scrambling around the hulk of the wrecked bike, throwing himself to the ground behind it.

  Another shot fired and he felt the bike tremble as the round embedded into the seat with a loud thunk. The big bike afforded a measure of cover but he’d be fucked it the guy hit the gas tank.

  Austin reached behind him for his 9mm and found the holster was empty. Shit! The damn thing must have come loose while he was cartwheeling down Route 66. He risked a peek through the forks and saw the glint of moonlight on a small hunk of steel, back about halfway between him and the cable. His gun was out of reach. He also saw that the Cable Guy had come out from behind his bike and was now walking toward him, his handgun raised and pointed in Austin’s direction.

  Austin was laying on his right side, curled up behind the bike. He looked down and surveyed the damage to his left side and it almost puked him. His thigh had been torn to shreds from knee to hip, raw meat among the bloody ruin of his tattered jeans. The side of his left fore-arm looked about the same. Both felt like they’d been grated like cheese. He touched his temple and felt the hole there from the rock chip, blood pouring freely from there too and streaming down his face. It gave him an idea, as the Cable Guy was almost upon him.

  With his good arm beneath him, he reached down to his boot and wrapped his hand around a cold Micarta handle. Then he shifted his body so that the ruin of his left side was mostly exposed and visible in the moonlight, as well as the rock chip wound on his temple. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing.

  The sound of the Cable Guy’s boots on the roadway was getting closer. Austin could hear him rounding the end of the bike. He heard him let out a low whistle.

  “God DAMN you’re fucked up!” Austin thought he recognized the voice but couldn’t quite be sure. He felt a boot kick him firmly in the torso. “You wouldn’t be playin’ possum now, would ya?” Another kick, Austin struggled to stay limp.

  “Holy shit is that—wow! I shot you right in the fucking head! God damn! I knew I’d hit you, you son of a bitch! That’s a goddamn kill shot if I ever seen one! I’ll be dipped in dogshit!” Austin could hear him laugh. “Well, better grab that ID for Tillman.”

  Austin risked squinting one eye slightly open, the one on the side of his face resting on the ground, and most likely out of the assailant’s sight. He could only see the Cable Guy’s boots, which were planted next to his mid-section. They were Red Wings. Nice boots. He watched as the boots tilted forward, the guy’s weight shifting to the balls of his feet, and heard him grunt as he squatted next to Austin.

  The Cable Guy was reaching over Austin, he could feel hands on his ass as the guy was rummaging around for his wallet. Go ahead, cop a feel, Austin thought. Most action I’ve had all week. He heard the faint clink of his wallet chain, and the tug at his back pocket.

  Suddenly Austin half-rolled off of his good arm and thrust the Loveless blade up into the guy’s stomach, burying it to the hilt, just above the beltline. He heard the guy grunt “the fuck?” Austin jerked upward as hard as he could with the knife,
to the extent of his reach that his prone position would allow. He felt the blade slicing upward through flesh, fat and organs before being slowed by the ribcage and sternum.

  The Cable Guy rocked backward onto his haunches, then toppled over onto his back. The blade slid out of him as he fell, spilling blood and entrails onto the asphalt in front of him.

  Austin rolled back onto his side, breathing heavily with relief. Then it dawned on him: That’s only one. Gene said there were four.

  His wounds were now screaming with pain. His entire left side throbbed. The rock chip embedded in his skull felt like a real gunshot wound except that if it was real he’d be dead. Everything that wasn’t scraped and bleeding was bruised and sore from the high sped tumble down the highway. Slowly, he got to his feet, wobbled a bit, and steadied himself. After a moment, his mind cleared and he surveyed the mess around him in the moonlight.

  The Cable Guy lay dead at his feet, guts spilling from the wound in his midsection. His dad’s bike was a mangled mess to his right. About 30 feet away, his gun lay in the middle of the road. Beyond that the cable was still stretched tightly across Route 66, the Cable Guy’s motorcycle tied to one end of it.

  First things first. Austin hobbled a step in the direction of his gun, stopped, and turned back toward the Cable Guy. The guy had dropped his weapon when Austin gutted him. It was a .45-caliber 1911. He picked it up, then rifled through the dead man’s pockets and found a full spare magazine. He also found the guy’s phone, and slipped that into his vest pocket.

  Next Austin dragged the Cable Guy’s corpse to the edge of the road and tumbled him over the bank, into the bar ditch. As he hobbled back to the wrecked bike he saw some of the guy’s guts had been left behind. He kicked them over to the side of the road with a wet schlopp sound. Bad idea, it just made a bigger mess and got Cable Guy blood all over his Danners.